Return to Cornwall: A Wedding in Cornwall Novel

By Laura Briggs

The sequel novel to the best-selling UK series 'A Wedding in Cornwall' brings new surprises, romance, humor, and wedding bells to readers who fell in love with the first stories.

Busy mother of two Julianne Rose has extended her talents beyond the manor house, opening her own event planning agency with the help of no-nonsense best friend Kitty. Balancing the chaos of daily life with their respective careers in their beloved Cornish village means Julianne can rarely snatch a romantic moment with handsome husband Matt. And just when it seems things couldn’t get any more chaotic, a sudden arrival at Cliffs House lands Julianne in the most unusual event of her career.

The reappearance of Percy or ‘the old earl’ after years of adventures abroad has temporarily shocked Lord William and Lady Amanda and set the entire village abuzz with gossip. Grizzled, spry, and delightfully eccentric, he’s returned with a most unusual set of traveling companions: an archaeological team digging in a spot whispered to have ties with the legendary Camelot. But it’s Percy’s ties with a certain charming woman among its team that has everyone taken by surprise, along with the news of their soon-to-be nuptials.

Tasked with planning the big day, Julianne and Kitty spring at this opportunity despite its rushed timeline and their own woes regarding the renovation of their future event space. But as the big day rolls closer for the earl and his bride-to-be – with cakes and wedding flowers competing with pottery shards and an ancient warrior chieftain’s grave for attention -- are there still surprising revelations to come?

Adding to the excitement is the return of former Cliffs House maid Gemma, whose posh new life as a novelist may not be all it seems ... and Dinah visits in a flurry of festive baking for a holiday competition on everyone’s favorite baking show. Kitty’s life is in a tizz regarding both family and secrets ... and Julianne’s happy marriage is challenged by an unwelcome sexy-and-persistent suitor among the summer visitors.

Filled with old friends, new adventures, and heartwarming Cornish charm, 'Return to Cornwall' is an all-new, full-length novel—the first one ever to feature the characters from the original series!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Briggs
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463139318

Laura Briggs

Laura Briggs is the author of several feel-good romance reads, including the UK best-seller 'A Wedding in Cornwall'. She has a fondness for vintage style dresses (especially ones with polka dots), and reads everything from Jane Austen to modern day mysteries. When she's not writing, she enjoys spending time with family and friends, caring for her pets, gardening, and seeing the occasional movie or play.

Book preview

Return to Cornwall

By Laura Briggs

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 Laura Briggs

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image: Summer at Cliffs House. Original art, Spring Ribbon, by Zandiepants and Luxury old fashioned houses buildings by Christos Georghiou. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

Table of Contents:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Dear Readers,

It has been over two years now since we bid farewell to Julianne Rose, the American event planner who found her happy-ever-after working at a breathtaking Cornish manor by the sea. After twelve novellas and a Christmas short story it was hard to let go of that world and its characters. But the door was always open to return, given the right story at the right time. I hope that you will agree that this is it—and that you’ll find it to be a worthy continuation of the series that so many of you likened to visiting old friends.

Our reunion story picks up roughly five years since the events in A Garden in Cornwall, with Julianne now a proud mother of two and partner in her own event-planning business with none other than Kitty, her first (and best) assistant. Her husband Matthew is still by her side, of course, and still brilliant and dishy as ever—even if daily work, stress, and the constant challenge of raising kids has put a bit of a damper on their romantic sparks. But Julianne wouldn’t trade her crazy, complicated life for anything else, even when this summer brings her the most daunting wedding planning task of her career.

As always, the event Julianne must tackle is somewhat larger-than-life, and so is the client behind it, in this instance. The elderly earl Percy is part rogue, part charmer, and an adventurer who never fails to surprise those around him. His friends on the archaeological team are equally passionate about life and experiences in their quest to unearth the ancient ruins time forgot. It was tremendous fun to paint their fictitious world of history and adventure, with a Cornish myth that we all know and love (and it didn’t hurt that binge-watching episodes of Time Team and Expedition Unknown counted as ‘research’ for certain aspects of their storyline either!). As for the bride-to-be, her story is special in its own way, and I hope that readers will find her connection with Percy to be touching, charming, and unexpected in more ways than one by the time they reach the final page.

In addition to these new faces in town, there are plenty of familiar ones returning for a visit. Former kitchen maid Gemma is now a published romance author, having achieved the dream she began back in book seven of the series, and Dinah the baker has her own professional dilemma at hand. These are just a few of the novel’s surprises, but I’ll leave you to discover the rest in the pages ahead.

Happy reading, as always, and welcome back to Ceffylgwyn!

Return to Cornwall

by

Laura Briggs

Chapter One

On a lazy Sunday afternoon, I am curled up on the floral cushion belonging to the garden's chaise longue, in what is usually the sunniest part of our garden. Clouds dampen the atmosphere today — it's not the kiss of the Cornish sun I was hoping for, with my complexion remaining hopelessly pale this summer in contrast to my hair's rust-colored highlights. Teetering on the edge of that life stage where freckles might be age spots, and the near-invisible eye creases add character, not years, I was taking my chances with tanning, as if I didn't care any more about the affects of nature and time on my skin.

I don't mind taking chances, contrary to what I had started to think. I'm a little more careful about them now, but that's the difference between risking another fine line around my eyes and making a snap choice that could cost me something that matters. Julianne Morgen matured, married, and modified in order to become this current incarnation of Julianne Rose. Change had kicked into full gear when I became a mother, holding my daughter Sylvia in the semi-dark of a sleepless night in our cottage kitchen while feeling as if we were the only two humans awake in the whole world. With me being the only one who wasn't completely helpless, that is.

Becoming a mother the second time, this time with our son Heath, I realized that I had a better grip on this than I believed. Once you get past the worst anxieties of middle age, life starts to find a balance between fear and facing the fact that there's only so much you can control.

My reward is this moment, watching both my children play in the garden's tall ornamental grass. Five year-old Sylvia's hair was growing straighter by the day, a deep, rich brunette that almost looked black in shadows. She had inherited not only her father's hair color, but his nose and the beginning of the same long fingers in miniature. My three year-old boy with my cheekbones already showing a little and his hair a shade lighter than mine, still retaining the curl that his sister's is fast losing.

Braiding a wreath, laughing in the few seconds that remained before the inevitable childhood tussle and fight. I could count those seconds with a mother's instinct. T-minus five seconds to fighting ... three ... one.

"You tore it!" A tone of hurt accusation from my daughter.

I want to do it —

No, Mama said you should let me make my own, Heath!

"But I want to!" Tears were building, along with three year-old frustration.

My cue to intervene was at hand. Heath bring some rushes to mommy and let her help you, I said. Let Sylvia do hers the way she wants to.

No, he answered. I don't want to make a wreath. I want to make a hat. With this announcement, he crawled into the middle of the grass and pulled up more stalks. Sylvia's scowl lessened as he abandoned her, and I could see the fierce concentration in her face and her short little fingers as she tried to fix the crooked braid.

Apparently my help was not needed, so I settled back against the cushion's back. Don't pick too many blades unless daddy says it's okay, I said, knowing full well nobody was listening. I envisioned the ornamental grass being depleted by tea time. Our back garden was far from a jungle, but its wild and tangled charm had been the only thing which saved it from destruction as soon as either of our children were old enough to snap a stem.

A few feet away from the children's play spot, their father was mulching some antique shrubs that flanked our cottage's kitchen door. Knees to earth, back bent in concentration before he straightened it, glancing lazily in the direction of two giggling children. I could see a streak of dirt on the bridge of his nose from the leather gardening gloves he wore. Little signs of age not so different from my own appear at the corners of his eyes and in the mature hollows of his face — not asserting themselves, just removing the youthful look of a late twenty-something for the look of a man in the prime of his thirties.

How to describe Matthew Rose without too many adjectives — that was hard in the beginning, when I was completely gone on him, and the idiosyncrasies of living with someone and knowing them in intimate detail doesn't simplify things.

I'll take it down to the bare details. Dark hair, curled and slightly overgrown. The five o' clock shadow at day's end. Rugged features so imperfectly perfect, giving him a strong face to match his body's physical strength. Warm and mild expression that intimidates only because a human face really can be that handsome. His jokes nearly always seem like they’re serious until you catch his eye.

It would be wrong to say I love everything about Matt. He's not perfect. He snores during pollen season, he uses infuriating tactics in arguments, and his glare could scorch painted walls. He tracks mud and wet leaves over floors I've cleaned when I'm expecting clients for events I'm planning, leaves muddy gardening clothes in a heap by the washing machine, and sometimes forgets that three year-olds will always find anything daddy left in his pockets.

The list of things I love about him, however, is longer. His tenderness, his sense of humor, the brilliant, intelligent side that he never flaunts at parties or holds over my head. His steady, completely reliable self that anchored me to this foreign shore. I could pile on more things, from the careful way he cradled our firstborn in his arms to that heart-stopping countenance that made women glance twice.

But the reason I love him the most is not one of the pieces, but the whole which they create. This is the man who lays beside me nightly and pours my cup of coffee in the morning. The man who plunged into matrimony with me when we both had fears and doubts about the future. He is the one who reassures me that all things will end well, that we are strong enough to survive together, that we will always find an answer. I can live with the springtime snoring or the occasional petty fight or angry look, since I couldn't go on without the rest.

Eight years ago I promised to spend my life with him, in the days when a glance from those dark eyes made my knees too weak to stand. That kind of chemical passion doesn't last forever, just like the blissful honeymoon period and the rose-colored perspective on your soulmate's flaws, but I've never looked back with regret.

Sometimes, in the right moment, that glance can still bring a tremor to my knees.

He turns to look at me over his shoulder, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes — a shared, silent laugh for the rules of childhood writing themselves in our backyard. When he climbs to his feet, I move over in the chaise to make room for him to join me. The dirt on his clothes, a fact of life that I've grown used to.

He settled in, releasing a sigh as he pulled off his leather gloves. The summer breeze lifted, the green branches ruffling, along with the sweet peas and red ivy covering the lattice outside the hothouse's walls.

After so much time on the shrubs, I'll be too spent after this to do the roses today, he said. I should have finished yesterday evening with the summer light on my side, since my train was on time.

You were too full of ideas for what to do for the teaching garden at Old Bill's, I said. That's all you talked about, so I don't think you could have concentrated on pruning dead canes. I covered the hand resting on my knee — his — with my own. The other one picked a little debris from his dark mane, the bits of twig and dead bud from our shrubbery.

Hmm. True. But I do need to devote some attention and a ladder to looking for the possible leak in Sylvie's room. Did you notice the stain on the ceiling? Over the toy box? I saw it last night when I tucked her in. I think it probably appeared with the last rain.

I didn't notice it. But lately she's been insisting that it's not her room anymore. She says the loft belongs to her now, and that she wants to take all her things upstairs. She's started taking her toys up there, and we had two 'time outs' in the corner for breaking the 'no stairs' rule.

Maybe I should talk to her, then. Clearly, we're having a bit of five year-old forgetfulness.

I reminded her of the rules. Not until she's eight. I even tried to convince her that it's a baby room, since Heath's old nursery stuff is everywhere.

She didn't fall for that, I'm sure, said Matt, smothering a laugh. She's much too clever.

Bingo. I sighed. I think we created a strong-willed monster.

Sylvie? I hardly think so, Matt said — the tone of a father with a soft spot. I worry more about Heath giving us grief than I do a little girl who's a bit assertive. Boys are designed to test limits and try patience.

Clearly you don't know anything about girls. I rested my cheek against his shoulder. She has you wrapped around her finger already. He scoffed, which was proof I was completely right.

I felt one of Matt's fingers peel free of its embrace, tracing a soft circle on my knee. I'll try to come back from my consultation early tomorrow to do a bit of patchwork if the roof needs it. In case those showers in the forecast really do come through.

Call a builder to look at the roof, I suggested.

There isn't a decent one available right now. You know that, you've been trying for weeks to hire one to see to some of the chores in the event space you're renovating.

Oh. True. What about Angus McArdle? He does a little bit of roof work.

And he's a cowboy, if Charlotte's story about him is true, said Matt, nose wrinkling with contempt. Sometimes I'm afraid the whole extension was a rogue job. I should have become a carpenter instead of a gardener, clearly. That little pantry space we converted for Heath has a draftier window than any of the cottage's old ones.

Rosemoor Cottage, our home, had been Matt's before it was mine. It was an old-fashioned Cornish limestone and beam structure, but with a modern roof and a painted chimney on the parlor side, and a small loft instead of a full upstairs. There were two modern extensions — small ones — attached to it which had eaten up precious if nonessential garden space, and carved new doorways through two of our walls.

There's a house for sale on the road to Falmouth, one with three bedrooms, said Matt. Giles emailed me a photo of it a couple of days ago, because he thought we might be interested.

Is it nice? I asked.

Decent enough. I can't say it struck me as particularly special, but it does have more room.

My love for the cottage was the reason we still lived here despite the cramped quarters. We had talked about houses, driven to look at them sometimes over the past few years. But we were still here, letting Heath outgrow his tiny nursery and Sylvie beg to sleep in the space where we stored the old cradle and our suitcases.

Do you want to look at it? It was my turn to wrinkle my nose, although I tried to hide it.

You suggested we look at the house near Par, even though it was a longer train ride to Ceffylgwyn for you if we'd actually liked the place, he said.

I know. But that was because you thought about putting your teaching garden at home instead of an allotment, remember? Which we definitely didn't have room for. I watched Sylvia crown herself with her wreath. Heath pressed his face against the glass of Matt's hothouse, peering at the roses and container plants inside.

Do you think you're still interested in finding another house? I asked.

Things like the leak in the extension make me wish I was, he answered. From his tone, however, I knew that he didn't want to go see the house, either. Sometimes I've wondered what we'll do if we have any more children. I can't picture another extension, and that last one will be better off as a pantry anyway, since one lanky teenager would practically sleep the length of it.

He tucked me closer, in the hollow created between his chin and shoulder, my face now pressed against the shirt fabric imbibed with fresh earth and the husky, dry smell of seed pods.

I plan on a half dozen or so, I answered, burrowed against the scent of his clothes, trying to remember how long it had been since I had grown used to the peculiar and slightly moldy smell of dirt.

Children? he asked.

What else? We weren't talking about Pomeranians, were we?

You intend for me to be the father of these children, I assume? I felt the laughter coming from deep in his chest.

Of course, I said. What's more, I intend to squeeze them all into this house like sardines in a tin.

You do? he said. This is your life's plan, which, apparently, you forgot to share with me at any point in the past.

I'm sharing it now, so I don't think you can complain. I've given you fair warning.

You can only make that sort of joke with someone who knows it for what it is, which is what a few years of marriage brings. Matt knew how to spot the grain of truth, which was that our current contentment made me happy. Our linked hands had gravitated from my knee to his as our bodies sought the most comfortable spots on the old cushion. One which had seen way too many days in the sun, its floral pattern nearly erased — much like the features of the weathered birdbath shaded by the unusual climbing rose arbor he designed several years ago.

I knew the day would come when we belonged somewhere else, under the roof of a place we would love as much as this one, but I still wanted that day to wait a little longer. I wanted to bury my feet in the same moth-eaten parlor rug over the same worn floorboards, and look out the windows at the view of hollyhocks and foxglove that seemed unchanging despite a near-decade of time.

Heath shrieked over an insect Sylvia had caught in the grass. But it wasn't the kind of panicked shriek that required parental intervention, so I stayed intertwined with Matt in the old garden chair, tilting my face to the sunlight to soak in the tranquility before Monday morning caught up with us. Moments like this were a gift of sanity in the beautiful chaos of my world, meant to be savored.

Chapter Two

A beautiful Monday morning dawned, and after wrestling both my children into summer play clothes and pouring bowls of cereal, I kissed Matt goodbye and left him with the washing up so I wouldn't be late for work.

Ceffylgwyn would be the merest dot on the shore in one of those tiny internet maps of Cornwall, near the only towns marked in the southeast, Falmouth and Truro. I walk nearly everywhere I go, whether I'm shopping, working, or picking up some last-minute pasties when neither Matt nor I had time to put anything in a slow cooker for dinner. Our cottage Rosemoor Cottage is close to the heart. Today, however, I cycled there with a basket of supplies borrowed from our garden shed and the kitchen home repair cubby, having promised that everything would be returned — more or less — in a few weeks when I was done refinishing some furniture pieces.

Sun brightened the jewel-like flowers in the urns outside the pasty shop, where Charlotte watered them with a long garden hose. Wet earth mixed with the lingering smell of fried cod and crisp pastry. Early summer bulbs planted in an old wooden trough just outside the Fisherman's Rest Pub were in full bloom, beside the bench where Old Ned was sitting, nursing a cup of coffee. He waved to me, although I didn't think he could see well enough at that distance to know who I was. I pedaled on through High Street, turning just past the old-fashioned chemist's shop, its wooden sign painted with the village's 'true Cornish' name in order to infuriate the opposition on the never-ending debate of precisely how 'Cornish' its Old English title really is.

The dispute over the adulteration of the true Cornish spelling is generally as exciting as it gets in this place, which is as sleepy and eccentric as any country village can be in the age of mobile phones, wifi, and social media.

Most people born here stay for life, and those who leave sometimes find their way back unexpectedly. I had been hooked even before I discovered I was eating the best Cornish pasties in all the county and enjoying a spot with cliffs and rocks as rugged as the northern shores. Not to mention the toughest quiz nights that any pub in England could boast.

I coasted past the turn for the harbor road, with a sign for coastal boat tours, the breeze sweeping through my hair and the loose summer blouse I wore over my jeans. When I first came here, I wore business clothes and business casual and no heels under two inches on a working day. Now, it was the reverse, which meant my collection of Prada, Jimmy Choo, and Kenneth Cole languished in the back of the closet, while sensible choices like boots, clogs, and lightweight chic running shoes ruled the day.

I swore the day would never come that I gave them up, especially not in my line of work as an event planner. But the past few years, I had to admit, had been more comfortable if less fashionable. Sometimes, however, I couldn't help feeling a tiny bit disappointed that my favorite red suede heels had spent more time on Sylvie's feet for her dress-up period than on mine.

A truck for Andy Pride's Contractor Services passed me, bringing me one more reminder of the construction service I needed for our new event space if we wanted to open it a few months from now. Matt was right about no one being available, and I was jealous of whoever had snagged one of those precious contracts in the weeks before I signed the deed on the new property.

Coasting to a stop outside my shop, I parked the cycle against the building's side without locking it, on the opposite side from the sky blue Vespa that belonged to my business partner. Who, in typical fashion, had beaten me to work this morning.

Save the Date — Event Planning for All Occasions. We offset our window's simple business engraving with a sign in the shape of an invitation sticking out of a party envelope lightly stenciled with a lacy silver pattern. The rusty old hooks for Willow's Florist sign hung behind it, the business which occupied our space until four years ago. We even have a website, because the clientele in a small village is limited options, unless you reach out for the kind of people who need planners — businesses, well-organized charities, clubs looking for a posh touch, and, of course, the well-to-do wedding clientele. We didn't want to fall back on our parent relationship with Cliffs House every time.

Once we had our own venue, we would be more attractive locally to villagers seeking a space for their special event. In the meantime, however, we planned anything within a hundred mile radius: in short, so long as we could reach it by car or train on the big day.

The 'closed' sign was flipped on our door, which was also locked. Today, we weren't officially open — it was the day we usually came in to clean our workspace and finish up floral arrangements or decorations we were providing for our next event. Today, we had lavender wreaths and bud vase lavender sprig arrangements to finish for a formal ladies' charitable luncheon at the local manor house tomorrow.

I unlocked the heavy brass handle with my personal key, letting myself into the main room of our business headquarters. A mini speaker hooked to a music player on the desk reeled off 'Take a Letter, Maria' instead of our usual lighter contemporary music playlist.

We had remodeled the interior ourselves with fresh paint, more windows, and moved the heavy reception desk closer to the front to seem more accessible. Where the Willows used to have multiple work tables and plant fridges, we had a conservative fridge case and a simple work table for demonstrations and an open space for showing off our talent for staging spaces.

Need a space remodeled artistically, spruced for a special event? We were open to the challenge for a basic fee — along with arranging flowers for special events when Marian Jones was overbooked, coordinating the hiring of big marquees, or finding a band when no local one is available. You name it, we do it. We kept our fees modest in hopes of attracting smaller groups who never considered the typical pricey notion of a hired planner, who would send a big bill for just saving them a few headaches. It was actually working, sometimes, if not quite as well as I had hoped.

Kitty was at the work table, fingers deftly weaving the lavender sprigs into an overlapping, oversized circle to hang above the dining room mantel. Her messy dark curls were pulled back tight in a ponytail, revealing two little diamond studs in each ear, a complete contrast to the old capri-length denim overalls she wore over an old green knit shirt, both covered by a green apron printed with our logo. Plastic crocs for footwear, which she told me a million times was more comfortable than any of the pinching high-heeled shoes worn for the events themselves.

Sorry I'm late. The alarm didn't go off, and Sylvia's play date fell through, so I had to find another babysitter for today. I pulled my own hair back in a messy bun using an elastic band looped around my wrist — one decorated with teddy bears from Sylvie's toddler days. Matt has to be at the memorial garden before lunchtime to meet with the rest of the trustees about putting in the demonstration one before the school term starts.

You didn't have to come in at all, she said. I can handle these all right on my own.

It wouldn't be fair if I let you do it. You were stuck minding the shop on your own last Monday, when Heath had a doctor's appointment, I said, slipping on my own apron.

Kitty snorted. Yeah, that was a proper burden. Me answering the phone about whether we booked the reception room at the Golden Perch down the coast. Not much had changed about Kitty over the years we had worked together, including those she had spent as my assistant at the manor before striking off on her own for a time, but her acidic humor had changed least of all.

I've heard she's opening a third branch next year — the Bronze Perch, I said. They were talking about it last quiz night. Rumor has it, there's a property being leased near that town where we helped plan that 'royal' wedding. Remember?

Two isn't fancy enough?

I guess business is good. There was a time when the Silver Perch was pretty much the only modern facility where you could host a nice party. More people want options besides the back room of the pub. Times were changing. Between the two modern tea houses with large party rooms and the newer luxury hotel between here and Falmouth, tourism had found an official foothold in our part of the county. Not to mention some of the younger crowd wasn't content with the old ways of doing things if they had a chance for something a little more special.

Think it'll be too much competition for our little spot? Kitty asked. We're not as insufferable as Lily Hammond, but some people like all that stupid faux crystal and glitzy stuff.

I hope there's room for everybody after the time we've put into that old barn, I answered, bringing the last of the crystal bud vases on a tray. I hated to think we'd given up our weekends and free time trying to convert its space, only to be outshone by the swanky but impersonal parlors of a modern coastal tourist trap. We're not trying for the tourist crowd, just for locals who want a nicer space than the back room at the Fisherman's Rest. The manor is so booked up by corporate events and outsiders these days.

The phone rang, and Kitty snapped up the receiver after drying her hands. Save the Date Event Planners, she intoned, in a nice business voice almost stripped of accent and abrasiveness. Mum, I can't talk right now, I'm working ... sorry, but I've my own worries without knowing Phil's coming around whining for extra quid ... if Nigel's fool enough to loan it, I can't help that.

Now that sounded like the Kitty I knew. A row with her mother over some shiftless relatives always brought out her tough side in full force. Listening, you'd think she was heartless and didn't care two twigs about them, but I knew it was the opposite. For one thing, nobody called our shop as frequently as Bets Alderson did.

Kitty slammed down the receiver. Whyever does she ring me about that lot? she said. "She's the one who should be lecturing Nigel on being stupid enough to loan Phil anything bigger than a fiver. But if he were any kind of a man, he'd do more with himself than sit on Mum's sofa watching her telly." She grumbled this last bit about her mother's boyfriend as she punched open a packet of flower preservative more viciously than necessary.

I knew Nigel had been dating Bets forever without taking their status to a more serious level, but since I didn't know exactly how available Bets was legally after the departure of Kitty's dad, it wasn't my place to comment. Bets treated their relationship as if it was concreted in sacred vows, however. I knew that she'd even made Nathan ask his permission for Kitty's hand, much to her daughter's scorn.

Time to change the subject. Nathan won't think it's fair if it means he never has breakfast with you on Monday mornings, I said. You should take a couple off in the coming weeks, Kitty. We don't have anything scheduled after the ladies' luncheon, unless the manor lands that conference this autumn.

He wouldn't have had breakfast with me anyways. He's been in London since Saturday. I reckon he's been home a half hour if that, since the train's usually late, she answered, tucking the last sprig into the big wreath. It was the weekend of the big concert at the Hall, remember?

Kitty's husband Nathan was an event promoter. That was how they met, actually, and how I met him also, when he was the promoter for a major concert being hosted at the manor. Affection for this part of Cornwall supposedly kept him around afterwards, although I really think it was his attraction to Kitty.

The charity orchestra concert with the big pop star? I sorted my supplies into a box on the table in the back room — the one where we keep the big floral fridges and sink, the arranging stations and the storage cabinets of ribbon, tulle, garlands, twinkle lights, and other tools of the trade.

It was. But he's back now, and he's hauling the windows out to the barn, so if you want him to help you unload the furniture, he can, said Kitty.

Did he say so? I asked.

No. She shrugged. But I did. Same thing. I could see the reflection of her saucy smile in the fridge's glass door for the act of volunteering a hapless Nathan. He's decent enough for me in the muscle department, though you're used to better.

Nathan was actually in good physical shape, but it was true that when it came to physical labor, Matt had the advantage. Teaching Ivy League classes hadn't erased years of intense landscaping labor that had chiseled and strengthened my husband's lean physique.

I encircled Matt with my arms sometimes as he stood at the vanity in our washroom, brushing his teeth or shaving. Feeling that hard muscle underneath firm skin in my embrace, I imagined locking my arms around an oak tree.

Matt's too busy to help with the furniture, I said. He did say he'll come lay our paving stones for the walkway after the next really good rain, so we won't have future clients slipping and falling in the mud.

Matt had joked about becoming a carpenter, but believe me when I say that he couldn't be anything else but what he is now: a gardening consultant with a reputation hailed at home and across the ocean. He had taught botany, horticulture, and plant genetics at some of the best universities in both places and done so brilliantly; even so, it was obvious over time that his true love was the physical act of creating or rescuing a garden.

Five years ago, I had persuaded him to do it full time, and while our plan hit some snags initially, between buying a house and building a new kind of life as a family, Matt had found the independence he deserved.

I put sprigs of lavender into the last of the bud vases. Are you sure Nathan doesn't mind being volunteered? I asked. He's been putting in a lot of hours with this last event.

He says he likes helping, said Kitty. Sometimes, I think he's daft. He actually said he's looking forward to dinner at mum's. Can you believe that's true? She made a face. Only a sadist would want that.

Maybe he's joking, I suggested, as I reviewed my decor checklist for the ladies' luncheon, which included a reminder to bring along a silver and white globe conical topiary that Kitty and I had saved from a banquet we helped plan last Christmas.

Maybe. His sense of humor's a bit weird. Sometimes I can't tell if he's joking.

You'll learn. I did with Matt, I said. Comparatively speaking, I was an old married woman compared to my younger business partner. Emphasis on the 'comparatively' part. I have to look for that little telltale gleam in his eye, because he keeps his expression serious the whole time.

Never noticed.

When he came back from South America, he told me he'd seen a thirty-six foot long Asian snake in the Amazon. I felt my lips twitch with a humorous smile. When I challenged him, he swore he had photographic proof. And he didn't crack a smile.

That's a ruddy awful joke.

I know. But we were still both pretty stressed out from everything that happened, so it was a relief to laugh at anything that stupid, I said. He's pulled more clever ones on me that actually made me angry — mean stuff, like teaching me to mispronounce village names when I first came here.

Sometimes people found it hard to believe that he actually did those things, but they didn't know him as well as I did. I sometimes think he must have enjoyed seeing me angry, since I came storming up to him more than once after learning the truth.

Village names and exotic jungle snakes were water under the bridge, because these days we had less time for silly jokes or playing pranks, with two kids and two jobs requiring all of our collective brainpower to manage. I had a fleeting spare moment or two — like Sunday afternoons — in which I could miss those simple days when we were still learning each others' rhythms and sharing secrets. The contented feeling of me and Matt cuddled close and teasing each other in private, without any interruptions.

Kitty's less of a romantic than I am, but Nathan was the kind who remembered every tiny anniversary and never missed her birthday. Their happiness seemed complete, if different from my and Matt's version of the same thing — especially with Kitty's family a little too close for my taste, if I were either of them.

Are you coming out to the barn this afternoon? I asked. Half of Nathan's noble volunteering of himself for various tasks was to spend more time with her, I suspected.

I thought I'd finish up all the decorations so I can make the delivery late this afternoon, she said. That way I can come in early tomorrow and start stripping off the paint from my latest find for the barn.

You're working the event, aren't you? I asked. I had been in charge of our last event, a swanky town garden club's tea for their centennial anniversary, because Kitty had a crisis to handle at her mother's. Usually we both worked our events whenever possible, because it was easier having two people for the client to turn to instead of one.

Kitty made a face, as if she didn't relish her turn to primp and placate, much like when she first traded out her grungy sneakers and jeans for business clothes. They don't need both of us for a lunch this small, so it might as well be you up there seating a crowd of well-dressed birds as me. You've better rapport with Lady A anyway.

What are you talking about? She adores you. Lady Amanda had trusted Kitty with my job for a whole six months once. Kitty was being ridiculous if she thought they preferred me. She'd never said anything about this before, so I suspected it was just a sudden flare from her obstinate streak.

You'll be better at it than me. Chalk it up to experience and take it as a compliment, she answered, flippantly. I'll take the lead for the autumn one if they book us, so you won't be stuck with it, too. I just need to finish a few things 'round here.

Whatever you say. Like times before, I let it drop rather than push Kitty to the point of sarcasm. It would just be me checking in with the manor tomorrow morning before the event, then. I had better make sure that Matt was good with dropping Sylvie and Heath off in the morning instead of me.

So what's this new furniture piece you've acquired? I asked, as I put away the finished lavender vases.

You'll like it, Kitty said. I bought it for a song at a charity shop in Truro that was trying to get rid of it. I figure it'll make a proper sideboard once we do a bit to it.

She stripped the sheet off an old wooden buffet in the back of the shop. The top was weathered, and the wood was an unremarkable light oak, but its shape, as well as the carving and ornate hinges and pulls, had plenty of character.

What are you thinking? Refinish it? I asked, hands on my hips.

She shrugged again. Maybe paint it? Distress it a bit, make it look like an old job, she said. Bit of shabby chic to dress up that space under the big windows.

I like it. Kitty had a good eye for decor, one which I always appreciated. It'll look nice with the big table we're fixing up for intimate dinners ... and with that smaller sofa we talked about, the one of your grandmum's that's still in the storeroom.

Thought so, said Kitty, in a satisfied tone. Maybe I'll start on it as soon as I finish the setup at the manor. You could ask Nathan to pick up something from the fish and chips shop and bring it by. Unless he wants me to come home and cook for him. It wasn't spoken quite as a joke, but in the conciliatory tone of someone trying to be a good partner even if it killed them.

I didn't smile, although the thought of Nathan demanding Kitty return to their home to make him a steak and potatoes was as laughable as a sitcom scenario. He'd be just as happy eating takeout with her in a room which smelled of chemicals, with the summer breeze fanning the old curtains and the old picnic blanket thrown down over our petal-strewn floor.

I'll ask him, I promised, pretending that this was a serious question. I closed the door to the flower closet filled with trays ready for tomorrow, reflecting on how long it had been since I had an impromptu picnic. Three years, maybe? Just after Heath was born, while my parents were in town keeping Sylvia at their hotel. Matt had spread a blanket over the parlor floor and